


An Unintentional Apricot

by SherlocksSister



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dialogue, Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff and Crack, Funeral, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Head Injury, Injured John, John being naughty, Kissing, POV Sherlock Holmes, Science Experiments, Scientific Sherlock, Self-Recrimination, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Makes Deductions, an apricot, and they lived happily ever after, lots and lots of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:05:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7695823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is busy taking care of Sherlock, while Sherlock tries to work out why. A new locked-room case excites Sherlock but alarms John. Truths of all types come out and life will never be the same again.</p><p>Oh, and there are apricots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fruit and Vegetables

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWhiteLily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Storming the Ship](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623193) by [TheWhiteLily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily). 



> TheWhiteLily has written some rather splendid entries for the 2016 Watson's Woes prompt. if you have not read them, I insist you go immediately and bookmark them. Trying to be helpful, I pointed out what I believed to be a typo/auto correct error in Storming the Ship. Turns out, I was just showing my ignorance and the apricot was, in fact, totally intended. Oh the shame! This is my apology.

John knew he was being deliberately provocative and that he would have to live with the consequences, but screw it, Sherlock spent his entire existence aggravating all around him, it was good to give him a taste of his own medicine every now and again.

Despite being less than a mile from their flat, John had never visited this grocers shop before. That was a sad reflection of their lifestyle really and he was nearly as much to blame for that as Sherlock. The fantastic arrangement of fruit and vegetables were making John’s mouth water. Really, the display was a work of art in itself. Arranged left to right, the fresh produce was organised by the colours of the rainbow. Tomatoes, red peppers, dark red apples, raspberries and strawberries nestled up against cumquats, sweet potatoes, oranges, persimmon, butternut squash and nectarines. The blueberries and blackberries at the far end glistened beckoningly. John grinned when he spotted the aubergines.

His idiotic smiling at vegetables had drawn the attention of the assistant. Her purple hair, green and red tattoo and silver piercings meant she fitted right in. Abruptly, John considered that his inane behaviour may suggest he was _too_ interested in the food. He had recovered enough cucumbers from people in A and E to know some customers must have very different reasons for visiting the upmarket shop.

Busily consulting his shopping list, John systematically worked his way through his ingredient list for the cauliflower dahl, spiced lentils, Bombay potato salad and poppadums. He had even decided to have a go at making his own lime and mango chutneys. Dessert would be an exotic fruit salad and yogurt. It had been the dessert that had led to the greatest debate.

“You are being ridiculous, John. I have lived on take-aways quite satisfactorily for many years now. Do I look like it has done harm?” Sherlock waved his hand theatrically up and down his frame while raising an eyebrow. John took a long moment to consider Sherlock’s body, eyes ranging from prominent cheekbones to slender hips and raised clavicle peeking out from a midnight blue shirt.

“You are at least a stone underweight for your height and, yes, as your doctor, you are most likely deficient in a Vitamin C, B group, K and iron, at the very least. I have lived in this flat with you for 16 months and in that time, I have never, not once, seen you eat a piece of fruit”.

“Nor I you” the eyebrow retorted.

“Exactly. Exactly. Physician heal thy self. Unlike you, I am _not_ a stone underweight. I am hurtling towards middle age at an alarming pace and if I don’t want a spare tyre and diabetes by 55, I need to practice what I preach. More vegetables, fewer take-aways and more home cooking”.

“Fewer of Mrs Hudson’s scones too?” Sherlock jibed.

“Well, let’s not overdo it”.

John wandered off looking for a notepad “What food do you like best?”

“You _know_ what I like. Thai green curry, Korma and Dahl”

“Anything else? That’s quite a narrow selection”

“Dim sum. Rice.”

“What about fruit? I’m going to make a fruit salad for pudding and we should have a fruit bowl on the err..” He glanced at the kitchen table, currently covered in test tubes, a Bunsen burner connected to the gas supply at the back of the cooker by a very dubious looking rubber tube and a selection of chemicals. In the middle sat one of John’s date shoes.

“Oi! What the hell is my shoe doing on the table? Those are my best ones, leather and cost a fortune! You utter wanker”.

“Precisely. I needed to test the effect of certain compounds on leather shoes over time. It’s for a _case_ John” Sherlock was exasperated.

“Well you can bloody well pay for a new pair. Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah. Fruit bowl. Maybe on the coffee table then. What fruit do you like?”

“I don’t”

“Sorry? What?”

“I don’t like fruit.”

“None of it? Not even apples or bananas? Everyone likes bananas or grapes maybe. I love grapes and nectarines now I think or it. Oh and apricots”.

Sherlock shuddered “No. Not in my flat. Not _apricots_ ” Disdain flowed from every pore. John took a turn to raise an eyebrow.

“They are” He inhaled sharply “Hairy, John. They are squishy and have a groove that reminds me of Mycroft’s…” he stared into the middle distance, nose and top lip curling. “Bring fruit if you must, but do not expect me to eat any of it”. He moved to his Belstaff hanging up by the door, extracted his wallet and removed £100 “For your shoes” he instructed as he handed John the cash before taking up his place at the kitchen table once more.

Clearly dismissed, John rooted around for his phone and sat down with the notebook. Each man spent a happy hour in companionable silence, Sherlock burning leather and causing small chemical reactions that made the flat stink and John picking vegetarian Indian recipes from Jamie Oliver’s website.

Standing now in front of the amazing display, John watched his own hand reach out for the plump, ripe apricots. He picked one up and sniffed it. They smelt delicious. He placed a punnet of them at the top of his basket and a few in a brown paper bag for eating on the way home. He knew Sherlock would have a hissy fit if he found them, but really, they were only fruit and Sherlock was a grown man. He could just get over himself.

He smiled at Fifi as he paid an extortionate amount for fruit, vegetables and a few spices. Even the cost of it didn’t dent his great mood. He was thoroughly enjoying his day off and was looking forward to the afternoon spent cooking. He envisioned Sherlock eating a bit of everything he cooked and a small thrill ran through him. He didn’t bother to try and examine why that should be, he had accepted his happiness at taking care of Sherlock a long time ago.

The walk home was nearly as much fun as the shopping had been. John passed by chi-chi boutiques and delicatessens. There were shops offering organic beauty treatments and gardening services. He entertained himself with daydreams of a life where such things were not only affordable but considered a necessity.

He stopped at the window of Montague's Mens Outfitter and Shoes, resting the bags for a moment and gazed in at the handmade, soft leather shoes in the window. These were well out of his league but maybe Sherlock would be able to advise him on where to get a nice pair for a good price. After all, the man was the epitome of style and someone probably owed him a favour. Yeah, John decided, he’d bring Sherlock shoe shopping with him.

The last stop on the short journey home was at the off license. Might as well throw in a nice bottle of wine as he was going to all this trouble. They had nothing else planned, could make a night of it.

Sherlock was in the bathroom when John returned to the flat. Much to John’s surprise the kitchen table had been cleared of all the experiments and even seemed to have been cleaned. Humming to himself, he started putting away the shopping, lining up the ingredients for dinner on the counter next to the cooker. He organised them by order of use, like he used to with his surgical instruments. Intending to make a double batch of everything for freezing, he organised containers on the second counter.

It was as he rooted around in the cupboards to find something to use as a fruit bowl that the phone began to ring. He was stood with the brown paper bag of loose apricots when Sherlock, dripping all over the floor from his shower, rushed out of the bathroom to grab his phone.

“Lestrade? Yes. Well, I did have plans. Well, yes I… locked room? Of course. Text me the address”. He turned to face John, raising his eyebrows. John nodded at him “We are on our way”.

It was only as John hurriedly turned to shove the bag of apricots out of site on the top shelf of a high cupboard that he realised he had spent that entire phone conversation staring at Sherlock’s naked arse.


	2. Experiments and Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is disturbed from running his experiment by the joy of a locked-room murder

As he got dressed, Sherlock reviewed the results of his latest experiment. He had not intended to expose John to his full nakedness for quite some time, but in designing the experiment he had struggled with how to contrive such a situation and he had decided to seize the opportunity when it had presented itself.

Rapidly buttoning his shirt he began to quantify John’s reactions. Sherlock knew John had been watching him, had felt the intensity of his stare before even turning around. In the second that he had surveyed his flatmate, Sherlock observed slightly dilated pupils, a slackness of the mouth and jaw, and a number of micro expressions flitting across John’s face in rapid progression – delight, curiosity and guilt.

Sighing, as he tied his shoes, Sherlock considered the ongoing complexity of his experiment to analyse his relationship with John. Having limited experience on which to draw, and really Mycroft simply didn’t count, and often finding his own reactions to John confusing, some time ago he had decided to apply the scientific method to the situation.

 He had broken down John’s behaviour in general into the classic divisions of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, measuring the extent to which his needs were being met. From this, Sherlock concluded that John needed him in order to feel a sense of belonging and usefulness, which in part explained the caretaking element of their relationship.

What Sherlock was finding much harder to quantify was the role he played in John’s esteem and self-respect. He was also troubled by the fact that John seemed to no longer be attending to one of his basic needs, sex. It was this that had led to the impromptu nakedness.

Even more challenging was the lack of predictable outcomes to his carefully constructed experiments. The whole point of the scientific method was that when repeated, the experiments should produce the same results. When he repeated his experiments on John, he spectacularly failed to do so. He was reaching two conclusions from this frustrating development; firstly, either John’s behaviour towards him was constantly changing or, human nature simply could not be observed scientifically. This conclusion displeased Sherlock and he was no closer to understanding why John stayed or what he wanted from Sherlock.

Pulling on his coat, they headed off down the stairs, his mind already re-running the previous locked room murders he had solved, creating an orderly list of possibilities to tick off at the crime scene. It was only in the cab that Sherlock realised he was vaguely disappointed at the disturbance to their afternoon’s plans, had been looking forward to watching John cook, he found it soothing. He had also been looking forward to the resulting food. He liked John’s food.

Sherlock made a note to encourage John in this plan to cook more. He would have to find a way to deter him from this ridiculous fruit buying business though. Maybe blow up a banana and leave John to clear up the mess?

­­­­____________________________

Lestrade met them at the gated entrance to the flat complex, filling them in on the key points as they hurried through the landscaped gardens to the main entrance.

“Victim is Mark Willis, 37 years old, unmarried but in a relationship, no kids. Works as a Personnel manager for an insurance company. We got the call from his boss this morning, hadn’t been able to get hold of him since Tuesday and not answering his phone, which is apparently very unusual”

“Cause of death?”

“Anderson is working on it. Nothing obvious yet”.

“Probably poisoning. It’s usually poisoning when Anderson can’t identify the cause of death. No obvious blood or wounds and he is stumped.”

“Which floor is the flat on?” John asked.

“Well, that’s the thing. It’s on the 14th floor and when we arrived, the front door was locked”.

“Why don’t you think its suicide then?”

“Usual things all missing – no obvious cause of death, no history of depression, popular, outgoing bloke, lots of friends, apparently a busy social life. We can’t rule it out until we get the autopsy results but I’m keeping an open mind”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John over Lestrade’s head. He obviously rated this as a four or maybe even just a three. John was optimistic he would be back home and in the kitchen within an hour.

The victim was lying on the floor, flat on his back on his bedroom carpet, head turned to the right. He was between the bed and the French doors leading to a small balcony, the windows covered in a voile curtain. There was no blood and no evidence of any disturbance in the flat.

Sherlock whirled into the room, all coat and arrogance. He ignored Anderson who stepped back out of his way with a sigh. Sherlock bent down and carefully examined the body, leaping from head to feet and back again. John loved this bit, loved to stand back and watch Sherlock do his deducting dance, as he thought of it, neurons sparking, hands elucidating his findings and eyes flitting and glowing.

“He was doing well in his work, was expecting a promotion. He socialises a lot with his work colleagues but because he likes them, not because he has to. His suit is new and expensive so he was on his way out to a social engagement but wanted to impress someone or keep up an image.” He flew down to the man’s feet and pointed “His shoes are also new, never yet worn outside but worn around the house to break them in. His watch is new, a gift from a girlfriend, because there is no sign of a tan mark. Also his old, plainer watch is there on his bedside cabinet and he does still have the matching tan mark meaning he prefers to wear that one. He plays with a five-a-side football team in a park league every Saturday. He has consumed ecstasy and cannabis in the past but not recently.”

Sherlock bent close to the dead man’s suit jacket and sniffed “He had been drinking alcohol when he died but just the one, a mid-range Irish whiskey, probably Jamesons. He spilled the whiskey as he fell” Sherlock crawled on his hands and knees, looking under the bed but then going at speed towards the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. He scrabbled underneath it and retrieved a glass tumbler and sniffed it.

“Nothing in here but the whiskey. No poison”

“Brilliant!” ginned John

“Cause of death?” Anderson invited sarcastically. Sherlock resumed his examination of the body. I believe it was a head injury. Here” he pointed to the man’s temple “do you see that faint mark? Early bruising”.

“Yes” said Anderson scrabbled to recover his failure to notice the pale pink crescent mark “Of course, but how does a man, alone in his locked flat fourteen floors up get a head injury like that, so severe it kills him but no blood, no sign of an attacker or forced entry or any one at all really, certainly no weapon?”.

“John. Your opinion please” Sherlock waived a hand at the corpse, inviting John to give a second opinion. He turned to Lestrade

“Have you found his phone? I need to see his phone”

John approached the body, already emptying his mind of the information from Lestrade, Anderson and Sherlock, ready to look at the situation from a fresh perspective. He only glanced at the man’s face for a fraction of a second, assessing his hands and clothes first. He frowned slightly at the expensive watch, vaguely remembering having seen one like it before somewhere. He was about to say as much to Sherlock when he returned his gaze to the victim’s face.

John froze for just a second before smartly turning on his heel and marching out of the flat.

 


	3. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has to make a confession to Lestrade while Sherlock continues to look for clues and think of his stomach

From his position on his hands and knees, examining the deep scuff mark on the toe of the victim’s left shoe, Sherlock only heard the bang of the door as John left. He continued his examination until he became aware of someone staring at him.

“Aren’t you going to …?” challenged Lestrade “Oh never mind. I’ll go” and Greg dashed off after John, much to Sherlock’s confusion.

Why did he think I should follow John, he wondered, after going to the trouble of bringing me here? I can’t solve a case running around after drama queens. Besides, John prefers to be alone when he is upset. It was only then that he considered why John might be upset, Oh! John knows this man, but how? I don’t know him and John and I know all the same people. Unless it is someone from his army days? Sherlock scowled at that idea as there was no indication on either the body or in the flat that this man had been a soldier. He continued his examination.

__________________________

“John, John! Slow down” Greg was out of breath when he reached John at the exit gate. “What on earth was that all about. Are you alright?”

John ran his hand through his hair and stared at the closed gate, trying to figure out how it opened “I’d rather not talk about it right now”.

“Er, I think you will, mate. Did you know that guy? How did you know him? Did you know him well?”

“I appreciate your concern, but really, I just need to get away from here”.

“Mate, you misunderstand me. You just left a possible murder scene in a hurry. You obviously recognised the bloke. I’m not asking you out of concern, I’m asking you as the investigating officer. Now, how do you know him?”

John stood and looked at Greg. He did not want to have to get into this, not right now. He needed a walk, get things straight in his own head. He raised his jaw.

“Look, I’m sorry but I just can’t. I need some time”.

Greg looked at him for a moment “You know, real life isn’t like one of those programmes on TV where the cops turn up and the suspect tells them they don’t want to talk or have answered enough questions for one day and the cops leave, like that bloody Broadchurch or Lewis. I am the police, and you will answer my questions or I will have to fucking take you down the station!”

John gaped back at Greg. This was getting away from him very quickly. All he wanted was to walk home and cook some dinner for himself and Sherlock. He sighed inwardly at the idea of Sherlock. He turned and began to walk away “I’ll call you in a while, yeah?”

“Oh no you don’t. You’re nicked and coming down the station to talk to me properly”.

Oh fuck, thought John.

 

__________________________

“Where is it? What have you done with his phone?” Sherlock demanded of Anderson and the uniformed officers preparing to remove the body for autopsy.

“We haven’t found it”.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began searching systematically, beginning in the bedroom and working his way into the bathroom, living room and kitchen. The flat was clean and tidy, the victim probably used the services of a regular cleaner. There was obviously only one person living here and a root through the pockets of the coat hanging in the wardrobe and the wallet in the kitchen confirmed that person was Mark Willis.

Checking for any signs of a break in through the bathroom windows or via the balcony, even Sherlock had to admit that 13 floors up was a very long way for someone to climb. His search complete, he returned to the bedroom. Spinning around and throwing his hand over his shoulder in a strange, dance-like manoeuvre, he suddenly dropped to the floor and scrambled on his belly commando style until he was able to reach under the middle of the divan bed, where he retrieved a silver mobile phone.

“Lestrade” he shouted but received no reply. Anderson finished signing papers and wandered in to the room.

“He rang about five minutes ago. He’s gone to the station. Seems he’s taken in your Dr. Watson for questioning”.

­­­­________________________

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade handed Dr. Watson a cup of luke-warm liquid the same shade of grey as the chair he was sitting on.

“Yeah, I know it’s shit but at least it’s wet. Drink the tea. Now, Dr. Watson, are you ready to answer a few questions?”

John put his elbows on the white plastic table top and held his hands in his head. After a few moments, he gathered himself together.

“You know, I have nothing to do with this, Greg. Why are you doing this to me?”

“It’s procedure mate. We have to stick to it or else whole cases are lost at court. You know that. Now, have you met the deceased before?”

“Yes. Once”.

“Right. Now we’re getting somewhere. And what name did you know him by?”

John paused for a second “I didn’t. I never asked his name”.

“Ok. When did you meet him?”

“Three weeks ago tomorrow. Friday evening. In the Dog and Duck”.

Greg raised his eyebrows slightly. He and John had often had a pint together in the Dog and Duck.

“Were you on your own?”

“Yes”.

“Oh bloody hell, John, we’re going to be here all day. Spit it out will you?”

John was beyond mortified. He would give anything not to have to tell Greg, or anyone really, this story. He seemed to have no choice now though.

“Right. So I was in the Dog and Duck. Sherlock had been his usual self, poncing around the flat all day in his pyjamas and I needed a bit of a break. I had a couple of quiet pints and got chatting to this other bloke sat at the bar. It wasn’t busy and he was happy enough just to chat. Turns out he was Mark Willis”.

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh nothing really. Being a doctor, being in the army. He told me about his job and how he’d just broken up with his girlfriend after 3 years. He was a normal bloke, you know?”

“Go on. So what happened that you are so desperate not to tell me?”

“Well, we both had a few too many pints and I headed off to the loo. He followed me and waited outside. When I came out, he sort of lunged at me and the next thing I knew we were kissing”.

“Bloody hell. But you’re not..”

“Yeah, I know. Not gay. Well, the kissing sort of progressed and the next thing were out the back in the pub garden and I err” John laid his head on his hands and muttered “gave him a blow job”.

“Why?”

John lifted his head and looked at Greg. He wasn’t laughing or shocked or showing any kind of emotion. He really did seem to want to understand. John let out a long, deep sigh.

“Because for the last 6 months, I have been living in a near constant state of arousal because of that fuckwit of a flatmate of mine, who doesn’t have any interest in that kind of thing and when I closed my eyes I could pretend it was him”.

“So you’re bisexual then?”

“Seems so. Although so far, there has only ever been one bloke who has this effect on me”

“His nibs. Yeah. I’m beginning to understand now why you didn’t want to tell me”.

“Yeah and you know what he’s like. If I had stayed he would have known all this just by the way I blinked and rubbed my nose or something. I’m not proud of what happened that night but it was just a way of letting off steam really.”

“Right. Well, I’ve learned something very useful from all this”.

“That the victim was bisexual? He said he’d had a girlfriend”.

“Well, yeah there is that, but more importantly that you are a complete numpty and need to have a proper conversation with Sherlock about all this.”

Anything else Lestrade was going to advise was interrupted by the phone on the wall ringing. Lestrade answered it, grinning at John after a moment.

“Seems you have a visitor”.

Sherlock swept into the room, coat and curls all swirling with the violence of his motion.

“Lestrade, what abomination is this! I insist you release John immediately. How dare you insinuate he is in any way involved in something as unpleasant as this? If you do not I shall have to..”

John cut him off mid rant “It’s alright Sherlock, we’re all done here, aren’t we Greg? I am free to go?”

“Yeah, you’re free to go. Sherlock you got anything useful for me?"

“I have some ideas but need to think about them. I need the phone records – Anderson has it- and the autopsy report. You also need to interview the girlfriend. I estimate they have been together approximately two and a half weeks and she has not been to the flat or been given a key but you should confirm that. Come along John and you can tell me how you knew the victim”.

John rose to leave, not looking at either man.

“Yeah, John. Tell him why you left” chuckled Greg.

________________________________

The cab ride home was quiet, both men lost in their thoughts. John knew he was going to have to tell Sherlock something and maybe this was the opportunity he had been waiting for? There was no point in trying to lie so should he just take the risk of telling the truth?

Sherlock spent most of the journey glancing at John out of the corner of his eye. It was plain that John was struggling with some internal conflict but Sherlock had no idea of its nature. He wanted just to ask but had decided to wait until they were home at least. It was plain, however, that John was not at all happy and Sherlock was not pleased by this. Whatever the problem, they would address it together. Sherlock wondered if he would then be able to persuade John to cook.

He was sorely disappointed then when they arrived home and John made himself a cheese sandwich, a cup of tea and went up to his room for the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's rant about TV police shows is one of my own favourites. I love all sorts of detective stories but it really annoys me when characters tell the police they don't want to talk to them or to just to go away and the police do. Then someone else gets murdered!


	4. Croquet Mallets and Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gathers data and John gathers his nerve.

Standing in the middle of the living room, Sherlock spun around in a circle trying to decide what to do. He needed to think but was distracted by wondering what John was doing, if he had slept, whether he would be going to work in the clinic as planned or if Sherlock might get an opportunity to talk to him. He considered making tea and toast, spun around again and contemplated the sofa, another spin, causing his dressing gown to flare out around him and his eyes rested on his violin. Good, yes, he would play or maybe even compose, it always helped him to think.

John woke gently to the sounds of music he couldn’t name but knew he had heard it before. It was a melodramatic piece, rising and falling at speed. John was enjoying it, liked the way it filled his head and eased him into the day. After five minutes he forced himself up out of the bed. He was going to have to see Sherlock, couldn’t keep putting off this conversation. He had spent a good while before going to sleep considering what he was going to say, how he would explain his actions and how Sherlock would react. He did consider refusing to talk about it at all, but knew Sherlock would find out one way or another. At least this way John could control what Sherlock found out and how.

Oblivious to John’s arrival in the room, Sherlock was throwing himself into his playing, head moving with the flow of the bow, eyes closed and whole body tensed and rocking with the music. John stood for a moment and watched the beauty of him, the angles and energy projecting from Sherlock, the peace on his face and agile, electric movements of his fingers on the strings. It was hypnotic and John only stopped staring when Sherlock suddenly put down the bow and opened his eyes.

“That was wonderful. Are you thinking about the case? Did it help?”

“I was thinking yes. No, it did not help, but I am glad you enjoyed it”.

“Have you eaten? I have to go to the clinic but have time for some breakfast. Do you want some?”

“Just tea. I ate earlier” lied Sherlock.

John moved to the fridge and was pleasantly surprised to find it packed full of fresh food, his shopping trip of the previous day forgotten. He made himself cereal with fresh blueberries and strawberries with a banana on the side for good measure, eating it quickly. Handing Sherlock tea “I really am going to have to cook this evening or all those vegetables will go to waste”.

“I shall look forward to it. John, about the case…”

“I really would like to hear all about it, but I have to dash. You can fill me in this evening, yeah?” With that, John grabbed his jacket and headed to work.

Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa in frustration. Clearly John was not going to explain his abrupt departure from yesterday’s crime scene or how he knew Mark Wallis. Why would John want to keep this from him? Since when did John have secrets? Maybe it was to do with the man’s work, had John taken out a policy with the company and something had gone wrong? Maybe he had been friends with this man in the past and had let the friendship slide and now was embarrassed considering how it had ended. Maybe he felt guilty about something? Sherlock’s train of thought was disturbed by the trilling of his mobile.

“Molly, do you have the autopsy results?”

“Yes, but there’s something – maybe you could come over and have a look yourself. Are you free?”

“I shall be there in 20 minutes”.

___________________________

Molly Hooper met Sherlock in Bart’s mortuary. Greeting him with smile over Mark Willis’s body, she got to the point immediately, knowing better than to try and make small talk with Sherlock.

“No sign of any abrasions, contusions or lacerations, certainly none conforming to any suicidal act like hanging. Toxicology shows evidence of alcohol and methamphetamines in his system, most likely absorbed within the last 24 hours. Cause of death is a comminuted fracture to the skull, indicating that he was hit with force. The skull has broken into six small pieces, resulting in an extra-dural haemorrhage which killed him. The only signs of a fall are post-mortem, small amounts of bruising to the buttocks, elbows and back of the skull, indicative of him falling instantly to the ground. Estimated time of death, between 8 and 11 am yesterday, approximately 3 hours before the body was found”.

“Methamphetamines?”

“Yes, he also had traces of ecstasy and marijuana in his system but at much lower levels. He probably hadn’t used either of those in a number of days. The alcohol was fresh in his stomach. He was drinking it as he died”.

“Yes, we found the glass at the crime scene. It was whiskey. No sign of any poison then?”

“None at all”.

Sherlock considered this. “You could have told me all this over the phone. Why drag me all the way over here?”

Molly pulled the sheet down from the corpse’s head “It’s the fracture. It’s a very particular shape. Perfectly round. I was unable to identify what weapon may have been used to cause such a fracture, did you find anything at the scene?”

Sherlock leaned in, re-examining the depression on the skull. “The bottom of a glass?”

“No, the pressure to the skull is too great, the glass could smash if applied with that amount of force”. Sherlock considered again. There had been no obvious weapon at the crime scene and his search of the flat had not turned anything up.

“I did think of one thing, but its ridiculous” she smiled sheepishly, looking up at Sherlock.

“What?”

“A croquet mallet. You know, the top of it has two flat round ends and the handle is really long. You could get considerable force by swinging a mallet by the end of its handle”. Molly mimed the action she meant, aiming her imaginary mallet at Sherlock’s temple.

“Indeed. Thank you Molly. I shall give it some thought”

____________________________-

 

Bloody Hell Watson, what is wrong with you? John berated himself as he walked down the busy streets to the clinic. You utter coward. How long are you going to keep avoiding the subject, hmm? Stopping to wait for a pedestrian crossing to turn green, John sighed out loud. He had been coping with his feelings for Sherlock for months now and nothing was getting any better, any easier. He had come to the startling realisation that he fancied Sherlock one Saturday morning as the other man had leaned over his desk tapping at his lap top and moving from one set of papers to another. Sherlock had been dressed in one of his impeccable suits at the time and all John could do was look at his arse. That delectable arse that he now longed to reach out and squeeze.

The realisation had come as a shock but the feelings had not been easily dismissed, intensifying until every action, every smile, every held gaze and every unexpected touch of fingers as they passed each other tea made John’s gut clench. For god sakes, he had been practically hard this morning just watching the man play the sodding violin.

The traffic had finally stopped and John crossed the road, heading towards the park. That was why he had done what he had done with Mark Willis. Sherlock had explained the first day they had met that sex was not his area and John had needed to find some way of directing this pent up desire. Oh and now look what had happened to the poor man.

By the time he had reached the clinic, John had resolved once again to tell Sherlock. It was simple really. Sherlock, look, I know you don’t want to know or do anything about it, but I fancy the pants off you and so I pretended a man was you and sucked him off and now he’s dead, but it’s all fine and we’re fine, just thought you should know.

Yes. That was exactly what he would do. Relieved, he started his working day.

_____________________________

In the cab on the way home from Barts, Sherlock called Lestrade looking for any new information. Lestrade had been to see the victim’s girlfriend, 24 year old Jade Elliot, an actuary with the insurance firm Willis worked at. Like Willis, Lestrade described her as smartly dressed in a skirt and jacket with high heels and carefully styled hair. Obviously, LifeTime Insurance expected a certain look for their employees.

She had explained that she had only been seeing Mark Willis for two weeks and in that time they had been out five times. Jade confirmed that she had not been to the flat, had even declined an invitation to visit the previous week “More interested in her work” she said “Had a lot to get done the next day, wanted to be fresh”. Jade had liked Mark but wasn’t looking for anything serious “I have my career to link about, I’m certainly not looking to settle down”.

Lestrade had asked her about Mark’s other friends and family. Apparently his father had died, he had one sister living in Bristol and his mother was in Hampstead. Mark had got on well with everyone, according to Jade and was out socialising most nights.

“Did you ask her if she knew anyone that might want to harm him?” Sherlock demanded.

“Yes, of course. I have done this before, Sherlock. I pushed her and she insisted he was very popular. It was only as I was wrapping up the interview that she mentioned Willis’s ex-girlfriend, woman by the name of Eloise Armitage. Said they had been together for over 3 years and Armitage had taken the break up very badly, apparently. Said Mark had told her Eloise kept phoning him and emailing him, couldn’t accept it was over”.

“Worth following up anyway. Let me know how you get on. Any progress yet in getting the details of his phone calls?”

“No, forensics are still working on it”. Sherlock ended the call. He needed to go to his Mind Palace.

Stretched out on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin, Sherlock considered all the information he had gathered so far for this case. He reviewed the layout of the flat, what he knew about the popular man and the wound to his head. Several things were bothering him; the scuff on the man’s brand new left shoe, the mobile phone being under the bed, the lack of signs of anyone else in the flat, the drugs and now a heart broken ex-girlfriend. Oh, and John. His John. What did he have to do with all this?

John found Sherlock still stretched out on the sofa when he returned home, the room half dark and three cups of cold tea lined up on the coffee table. At least he’s dressed, thought John. The pyjamas would only make this conversation even harder.

“Sherlock, can I talk to you? Sherlock?”

“Hello John. Good day?”

“Um, yes, alright. Listen. I need to talk to you about something. Been thinking it over all day. It’s about yesterday, why I walked out on the crime scene”.

Sherlock sat up but said nothing. He gave John his full attention

“Yeah. Well, you know I’m not very good at this so I think it might be best if you just let me say it and then if you have questions I can answer them, alright?” Sherlock nodded.

“Right. Yes. Good. Well” John took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and calmly stated “You see the thing is, I know you aren’t interested in, or rather I should say it’s not your area, but I happen to be very sexually attracted to you and sometimes it can get a bit much and I sort of happened to meet this boke in a pub one night and I found myself, well, doing things with him and er, pretending it was you. Then he turned up dead on the floor of his apartment and I panicked because I never intended for you to find out, and its entirely my problem and I don’t expect you to do anything about it or even..”.

Sherlock sat and stared at John, processing what he was saying. This was definitely going to change the parameters of his experiment.


	5. Complications and Questioning

Sherlock’s brain fell into joyous freefall.

John found him attractive. In a sexual way. So he _had_ been going in the right direction with his experiment. The naked arse had been a triumph. Oh, but that meant that the researcher had, in fact, influenced the outcome, changed the subject’s behaviour – ah Mycroft would never let him hear the end of such a mistak.. No, do not think of Mycroft. Where was I? Yes John and sex. Do I want sex with John? What else does he want? Does he just want sex? What kind of sex? Do I want sex with anyone? Do I want sex with John?  Already asked that one. I may need more data.

John stared at the silent impassive face in front of him. Shit I think I’ve broken him. Oh, this is not good. I knew this wasn’t going to be good “Listen, Sherlock. I’m sorry, forget what I said, its fine. We’ll just carry on as we are and I will just put it all to the back of my –“

Sherlock looked up at John with a jerk, suddenly realising John was talking again. “Do you want a relationship with me John or just sex?”

Feeling drained all of a sudden, John sat down on the coffee table facing Sherlock. He had not got this far in his imaginings of this scenario. He thought he had been through every possible outcome from being physically thrown out of 221b to Sherlock laughing at him and announcing “but John, I’m not gay” to Sherlock taking him in his arms and kissing him passionately declaring “Oh John, what took you so long!”. That had been his favourite one, had been revisited and embellished rather a lot and had resulted in a rather lovely wank. However, he had not been prepared for this cross examination. On reflection he wondered what he had been thinking. Of course there would be questions.

“What do you mean by relationship? I mean, we already have one don’t we?”

“Well relationships with sex usually mean lots of negotiation, misunderstandings, arguments and anger. Sulking and cajoling, frustration and disappointment, don’t they? Oh and flowers. I don’t want that with you John”. The memories came at him all at once, the shouting and tears, his own confusion. His initial joy at John’s announcement began to ebb away.

John was dumbstruck. Jesus, was that all Sherlock had ever known? No wonder he had given up on sex.

“Sherlock, how many sexual relationships have you had?”

“Two. Both the same, both deeply unsatisfying and both ending very badly. There may have even been a restraining order involved. You are my friend John, I do not wish for us to do that to each other”.

“That’s not, well I. Ok.” God he really did not want to use the phrase ‘not normal’.

“That doesn’t have to be the way it goes. I have had my fair share of relationships go sour but I’ve had some brilliant ones too. Look at Sarah, we’re still friends aren’t we? No restraining orders there.” he tried to lighten the mood “Also, for the record, I won’t need flowers. You asked if I want a relationship with you. What I want, now I think about it, it is for us to carry on exactly the way we are, but with me allowed to touch you and you touch me, if that is what you want. I mean, we already take care of each other, we go out to eat, have fun, we work brilliantly well together and that’s exactly what I want to carry on doing with you”.

“Do you not think sex will complicate that?”

“Well, I don’t know. Possibly. It might also make it absolutely wonderful”.

Sherlock considered this idea. He remained unconvinced. His previous sexual relationships had been awful.

It was John’s turn to interrogate “Can I ask you a question?” he nearly added, ‘and be honest’ but knew it was superfluous, Sherlock was never anything but brutally honest “Would you like to touch me? I mean, if we pare it right back and don’t worry about the relationship and sex compatibility and stuff, do you find me attractive, cos if not, this whole conversation is pointless”.

Sherlock _did_ know the answer to this one. “Yes. I would very much like to touch you, John. I have done so for quite some time. However, I have been very unsure of your own feelings on the matter.” Should he tell John about the experiment? Possibly not.

“That’s brilliant! God, you had me going there, you git” John leapt from his spot and moved towards Sherlock, only to be met by a raised hand, palm outwards clearly blocking any further progress.

“What? If you want to touch me and I want to touch you, now what’s the problem?” his exasperation growing.

“I am unsure if this is a good idea. As I have explained, my previous sexual partners demanded more of me that I felt able to give; consideration, to be given priority in how I used my time, emotional support and sharing of feelings. I am not good with feelings John, as you well know. I let people down.”

Ah, now they were beginning to get somewhere, realised John, standing and moving to the kitchen to put the kettle on to boil, the tricky matter of feelings. He rubbed his hand over his chin, feeling the five o’clock shadow and needing tea more than ever before. Why had he thought this was going to be simple? He wished he had never said anything, wished it had remained a fantasy that would probably have passed after a while anyway. He sighed.

“You are having second thoughts. Would you have told me of your attraction if your hand had not been forced by this case?” Sherlock was calm.

John considered this. If he was honest with himself, really honest, he knew this was much more than a phase, that it would not have passed, only intensified. That was the real truth, his desire for Sherlock would have burned him up alive from the inside if he had not voiced it, given it at least a chance to be real.

“Yes, I think I would have. Agreed, maybe not yet, but I couldn’t have carried on the way I have been. I want you Sherlock. There, you want to know what I want and feel and need? I want you. I want you to be mine and no-one else’s, I want to have you by my side and in my bed as my friend, my lover, my ever-after. I want you to be there when I am struggling because you are my reason to keep going, the calm to my storm, the stillness to my panic. I want to be there for you, take care of you when you are beat up, or sleep starved. I want to hold you and comfort you when your brain is in overdrive and you can’t eat or play the violin or even think. I want to be the one you turn to when every single thing else in the universe is driving you mad and you know I will make it better. That’s what I want”.

John was breathing hard, the magnitude of what he was saying washing over them both. The realisation of what he was _not_ saying hitting them both. Fuck, how long had he felt this way? How long had he been in love with Sherlock Holmes?

John did what he always did. He grabbed his coat and left.

_______________________________

 

Sherlock was still sat on the sofa, mouth agape watching John’s back disappear out the door when his phone began to trill and vibrate on the table. He considered not answering it, following after John but it was Lestrade and frankly, he was happy for the distraction.

“Sherlock, we have the records from Willis’ mobile phone. What did you want to know?”

“Who did he receive his last call from?”

“That’s an interesting thing. It is listed in his contacts as ‘Do not answer this number’. We are still trying to identify the number though, it’s just ringing out. You know what the phone companies are like with their privacy and stuff”.

“Not very helpful.”

“No, not really, but we’ll keep working on it. I’m just on my way over to talk to the ex, Eloise Armitage. Want to come?”

“Give me the address, I’ll meet you there”. Hanging up, he sat just for another moment, needing to go and get dressed. He decided to send John a text.

“Going to meet Eloise Armitage. Would you consider joining me? I would value your opinion. Sending on the address”.

He received no reply.

_________________________

 

You arse, you arse, you arse. John pelted down Baker Street, away from the flat and towards Crawford Street. He turned left and weaving between the other pedestrians, headed for one of his favourite spots, Paddington Street Gardens. Until 1885, it had been used as a churchyard and remained consecrated ground. John had always found it still had a very calming atmosphere and loved to stroll amongst the formal gardens and sit and watch the kids play in the playground.

Today, he headed for his favourite spot, the bandstand, glassed in now to protect users from the weather. He sat, looked out the window and thought. He had ruined it. Ruined everything, and, to top it off, had gone from fancying the annoying bastard to falling in love with him. Sherlock had sat and told him that he wasn’t good with feelings and what did he go and do? Yeah, pour out his scalded, needy heart. That will really help Watson. Bloody hell.

He was more than a little surprised when his phone beeped and it was a message from Sherlock asking him to meet him to work on the case. With his newly minted self-awareness flooding over him like a bucket of cold water, he stood up. Of course he would go and meet Sherlock. It looked like this was how it was going to be now; Sherlock would call and he would always go.

_____________________________

 

On the cab ride to meet Lestrade, all Sherlock could think about was John, the things he had said and not said and the way he had left. It was only as they were pulling into the leafy street where Eloise Armitage lived that he realised he had not given the case a single thought. This, he told himself, is why you cannot have a relationship, it ruins your ability to work. No, he was decided. As much as he would like to explore and give himself over to John, it was a disaster waiting to happen. It would ruin their friendship and that would destroy him and his work would suffer. He would have to suppress these feelings again and John would get over it in time, he wasn’t the first person to have a crush on Sherlock. After all, Molly had managed it. And Lestrade.

________________________________

 

Eloise Armitage still lived in her family home, an enormous red brick Victorian house in South Hampstead. Once two houses, they had been knocked together to make one and the already large, long gardens at the rear combined. It was obviously someone’s pride and joy. As Sherlock looked through the drawing room French doors he could see a summer house, water fountain, formal herb garden and roses as well as a Japanese garden. A brick path weaved down the length of the garden before disappearing under an ivy covered arbour surrounded by mature trees.

As Lestrade went over the details of how Mark Willis had been found, Sherlock scrutinised Eloise Armitage. She was 38 years old but looked considerably younger, although Sherlock could not see any signs of plastic surgery or botox. She simply had impeccable clothes, shoes and make up. Sherlock admired her blue navy silk tea dress with its hydrangea pattern, clearly made to measure. This was a woman of taste.

“We were a couple for just over 3 years” she confirmed “but had known each other for more than 12 years. We were friends at first and I was away working in Italy for a number of years. When I returned, Mark was one of the people who contacted me first and one thing led to another”.

“And why did you break up?”

“It was my decision. I just didn’t think things were going anywhere. I had thought we would settle down, have a family, but Mark kept putting it off. I had had enough”. Sherlock studied her face carefully, she was lying about something that was clear, but what precisely?

“Had you discussed these things, agreed them?” he asked.

Eloise shifted her attention to Sherlock who was standing at the end of the sofa where she was seated.

“Yes. Many times. He would say he wanted marriage, a home and a family but whenever I tried to suggest we actually arrange any of these things, he would back away”. This was true, Sherlock deduced but doubted that the decision to end the relationship had been entirely Eloise’s decision.

“So you decided to end things and move on?” he pushed. There was a chime at the front door and someone answered it. John walked into the drawing room. He nodded briefly at Sherlock, avoiding his eye and greeting Lestrade who introduced him to Eloise. John sat down in the chair opposite her and Sherlock continued his line of questioning.

“You were saying, Miss Armitage?”

“Well, yes, we discussed it. My younger brother and I had sat up late one night hashing it out. He convinced me things were never going to change unless I pushed Mark. He said I had to get him to make a decision or get out. To be honest, I thought it was going to force his hand, get him to realise I wasn’t going to wait forever. I was rather shocked when he agreed that it was probably better we break up and by then I had to agree. It had been my idea after all”.

“Your younger brother?”

“Yes Evan, that’s him”.

Eloise pointed to a selection of photos in silver frames lined up along a mahogany sideboard. The pictures showed herself and a taller, blonder young man arm in arm or learning their heads together. Many of the pictures were clearly taken at sporting events, sunshine making them squint into the camera, with Evan in sports kit. Behind the photos were a number of trophies, all engraved with Evan Armitage’s name. Sherlock picked up a number of the photos in turn and examined them.

“Did you have any contact with Mark since you broke up?”

“Only to return items we each had at the other’s home, gifts, that kind of thing. The usual” She sighed. “I cannot understand how this has happened to him. He was always so popular, it’s so sad” She looked away, a tear falling down each cheek.

Lestrade gave her a minute before asking “How did you feel when you found out he had a new girlfriend?”

Eloise stared at him “I - I didn’t. I mean I didn’t know”.

“May my colleague and I look at your garden?” Sherlock interrupted suddenly and not waiting for a reply nodded at John to follow him out the French doors.

“What on earth are we doing out here, Sherlock?” asked John, keeping pace with the long-legged detective as he strode down the garden path towards the arbour.

“I wish to confirm my suspicion that Miss Armitage is a rather good croquet player. There are photos of her in competitive uniform and there was a slight mark on the sideboard to indicate that a trophy has been removed”.

Just beyond the arbour and out of site of the house, the garden opened up into a large plush manicured lawn. On it were a full set of crocket hoops. At the very end of the garden was a small wooden shed.

Sherlock was triumphant “As I suspected! Quick John, we must find the mallets, I think we may well find the murder weapon. They must be in the shed”.

“Shouldn’t we go and get Lestrade? Her brother is in the house, you know, he let me in and there could be others around. We should just let Greg follow procedure”.

“Nonsense. It could take them weeks to get the paperwork to do a search and then run all the tests. If we find anything, I can do the tests at home and we will know by morning” Sherlock grinned at John. “Come on”.

With John keeping watch, the pair followed the garden fence down to the shed. The door was padlocked and it took Sherlock over a minute to pick the lock. Once inside, the shed was pitch black.

“John, come in here, I need the torch on your phone”.

John squeezed in behind Sherlock. The shed was crammed with junk; an old lawn mower, rakes, spades, water cans hanging from hooks on the ceiling, old hockey sticks and balls, odds and ends of wood, boxes of nails, slug pellets and weed killer. Sherlock scanned what he could see.

“Shine your light in at the back. Yes, Ah ha!” Sherlock leaned over and grabbed the handle of a croquet mallet hidden under a pile of wood at the very back of the shed. As he stood and turned rapidly, pulling out the mallet he came face to face with John standing behind him, arm in the air holding up his phone. Sherlock looked at him for just a fraction of a second, nodded slightly to himself, leaned over and kissed John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [sherlockssister1](http://sherlockssister1.tumblr.com/) on tumblr - come and say Hi


	6. Melons and Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally get to eat their healthy dinner, there is a problem with a melon and an apricot makes a special guest appearance.

Sherlock touched John’s lips gently before stepping in closer. John parted his lips –

“What the fuck are you doing in my shed?” The blonde man who had wrenched the door open filled the doorway, blocking out most of the light.

Sherlock simultaneously hid the croquet mallet beneath his coat, moved away from John and extended his hand to the man.

“Ah, you must be Evan Armitage” he smiled ingratiatingly “Sherlock Holmes, pleased to meet you. I believe you have met my colleague, John Watson?” Having grasped the man in a firm handshake, Sherlock used the contact and distraction to propel the taller man back out of the doorway.

“You said you were working with the police. Where’s your warrant, I know my rights, you can’t go barging around people’s homes -“ his words fell on deaf ears as Sherlock and John were already sprinting away, heading towards the side gate, John deftly hurdling over two croquet hoops on the way. Evan Armitage gave chase. “Oi you bastards, come back here!”

Sherlock reached the gate first and yanked it open, waiting for John. He slammed it behind them, just avoiding hitting Armitage and, grabbing John by the hand, they turned right out of Aberdare Gardens and then the second left onto Fairfax Drive. Armitage was still chasing them, the man slowed down somewhat by his size but making up for it with powerful thighs and obvious fitness. Sherlock dragged the panting John right again and then they disappeared into the crowds of people entering Swiss Cottage Tube station.

Sherlock immediately slowed to a walk and was grateful he was carrying his ever present Oyster Card. The two men slipped through the ticket barriers and into the depths of the crowds of travellers, heading for the Jubilee Line. A glance back saw Evan Armitage, hands on hips, panting and sweating, scanning the crowds, still looking for them.

The tube journey to Baker Street was just two stops and both men spent the journey recovering their breath and grinning at each other. It was only on the short walk from the station to their flat that John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s, who gave it a welcoming squeeze.

Once back inside the flat, coats removed, mallet left carefully on the kitchen table and kettle boiling, John turned to Sherlock.

“You kissed me. Does that mean you have changed your mind? About us, I mean”.

“It would appear I have. After you left, I decided that it was still a bad idea, us having a relationship. I don’t want to lose what we have John, you are the best person I have ever known, the only one brave enough to be my friend. However, I was simply unable _not_ to kiss you at that moment, as if my logical mind was not in control of my actions, but my heart, after all these years of being ignored, was going to make its desires known. I do have“ he paused, glancing at John from under his eyelashes “some reservations. Concerns. As I have explained, my previous experiences were not entirely positive and I would be grateful if we could take the physical side slowly, give me time to adjust”.

John walked over to him and took Sherlock in his arms. “We will take things as slowly as you want. I am simply delighted just to be able to do this, to hold you.” Smiling up at Sherlock, he slid his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and drew him down. At the exact moment their lips met, Sherlock’s phone rang.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“Ignore it, John” Sherlock urged but the phone kept ringing. John rested his head on Sherlock’s chest in defeat. “Go, on answer it. It might be important”.

Lestrade was practically screaming down the phone at him “What the actual fuck have you two done this time, huh? I have an irate member of the public roaring at me about breaches in protocol, breaking and entering, not having a warrant and threatening me with the Police ombudsman. The Ombudsman Sherlock! You know what she said the last time!”

“Indeed, Lestrade, she made herself quite clear. However, I do believe we may have retrieved the murder weapon. I need to run a few tests to be sure but will get back to you in the morning. Now, do not call me again today. John and I have plans”. He hung up despite Lestrade still ranting on the other end.

John was smiling at him fondly “Did we get him in trouble?”

“Yes, but nothing we can’t make right. I may need to make a call to Mycroft, however, and you know how I feel about that”.

John raised his head once more and pulled Sherlock down to him. Their lips met gently at first, both men pulling closer together. Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around John who stroked his back. When their lips parted and John’s tentative tongue slid slowly and languidly across Sherlock’s, the younger man relaxed and a small moan escaped him. He pushed into John’s mouth harder, hands moving to hold his head, fingers deep in his hair. They kissed and kissed until neither could breathe. When they parted, Sherlock was swaying gently, his eyes half closed and glazed.

“I meant it Sherlock, when I said we would take it slowly. Tell me what you would like. Right now. What can I do for you?”

Sherlock stood and considered this. In the past he had felt pressured to keep his partner happy, had felt that he could only keep them if he did the things they asked of him, however difficult or uncomfortable it made him. He decided to trust John, take him at his word and say the things he truly wanted.

“I should very much like for us to do more kissing, and then, I would like you to make me that vegetarian dahl and spiced potato salad you promised me. I haven’t eaten properly in two days, I’m hungry and so are you”.

John threw his head back and laughed before leaning in and giving Sherlock one more soft kiss.

“That sounds like a great plan. You can make the tea”.

That was exactly the way they spent the rest of the evening. Sherlock made tea and sat at the kitchen table watching John chop and cook, stirring things occasionally and testing the mango chutney for sweetness when asked but mostly listening to John hum as he pottered around the kitchen. Every now and again, John would lean over the table and kiss him or Sherlock would be moved to stand and go to John’s side and brush his lips gently over John’s ear or neck.

Dinner was tasty, eaten off laps in front of the telly and there was way too much so John froze the left-overs and persuaded Sherlock to dry up the clean dishes. John decided that if they never did anything else but kiss and live in this companionable bubble he would be happy for the rest of his life.

_________________________________

Sherlock leaned over his microscope and adjusted the focus again. He had risen early and had already collected specimens from the two ends of the mallet and its handle. When he had dusted it, the mallet was awash with different finger prints as he had expected, including his own of course. He had been able to preserve two or three intact whorls that he would give to Lestrade for comparison. He could also already tell where the mallet had been made and had 3 distinct pollen traces to indicate the where it had been most recently used to actually play croquet.

What he had not found, much to his annoyance, were any traces of human hair or skin, or any evidence that it been cleaned at any time.

By the time John got up and joined him in the kitchen, saying nothing but planting a sleepy kiss on Sherlock’s cheek and then the proffered lips, Sherlock was down to his last test and he needed John’s assistance. With unusual self-restraint, he waited until John had had a cup of tea and some toast, even accepting a slice himself although he didn’t eat it. As his patience was stretched by John’s audacity to have a second cuppa, he distracted himself by once again examining the tiny translucent sliver of wood on the slide under the microscope, hoping he might find something he had missed. Seeing that John had placed his cup in the sink, Sherlock seized his moment.

“John, I would very much appreciate your help with an experiment”.

John raised an eyebrow “What kind of experiment?” Neither of them had forgotten the incident during the case of the disappearing chef which had ended with John displaying an impressive black eye.

“I need you to hold something that is all.” Sherlock turned to the cupboard where John had stored the fruit he had bought two days previously. Solemnly, he handed John a watermelon.

“I need to test a hypothesis. Watermelons provide an excellent stand-in for the human skull when testing the stresses that it can withstand. Please hold it firmly on the ground. Yes, just there”.

John had crouched down, holding the large watermelon on the kitchen floor in front of him. Sherlock raised the mallet and brought it down with the force he had estimated was necessary to reproduce an injury similar to that found on Mark Willis.

Nothing happened.

“Bit harder, I think” offered John, encouragingly. Sherlock stared at him balefully and raised the mallet once again. He wanted to be sure that the damage pattern caused by the mallet matched the dimensions of the wound exactly. Smack. The mallet rebounded off the watermelon which remained intact.

The frustrations of his morning’s fruitless search for evidence coalesced with John’s efforts to be more helpful. Just as Sherlock brought the mallet down a third time with much greater force John raised the melon slightly and Sherlock’s aim was fractionally off. As John howled in pain, fragments of red watermelon and hundreds of seeds exploded everywhere, covering the entire kitchen but most especially John Watson’s face as he clutched his hand and Sherlock learned some of the British Army’s more inventive swear words.

“You prick, you’ve broken my thumb” John was livid.

“I’m sorry John, here” Sherlock handed him a cold pack from the first aid kit John insisted they keep in the kitchen.

John sat in the living room, nursing his poor thumb and glowering at Sherlock. After a while spent in uncomfortable silence John announced he was going to get dressed and go to A and E for an x-ray. Sherlock offered to join him but John simply growled at him.

Retreating to the sofa to think, Sherlock was in turmoil. Would this be the end of the kissing? Would John realise what he was letting himself in for after all and decide he was better off just being Sherlock’s flatmate. Worse still, would he move out?

A terse John stood in front of him.

“I’ll text you from the hospital. For God sake, clean up the kitchen” and cradling his arm headed off down the stairs.

Sherlock threw himself on to the sofa. He badly needed to think through the case, had been convinced that the mallet was the correct weapon but it had not resulted in the expected injury. Despite his best efforts, all he could think of was John. Maybe it was for the best that he had ruined things before they had really started. It was affecting his ability to work.

Unable to focus on anything useful, he started wiping down the kitchen walls and cabinets, and then realising he too was covered in melon splatters, showered and dressed. His phone was flashing a missed call notification at him when he emerged from his bedroom and he leapt on the phone, hoping it was John but discovering it was Lestrade. Sherlock rang him back.

“Don’t you dare hang up on me this time. I hadn’t finished telling you everything last night”.

“I had more important things to attend to at the time, but now I return to being all yours”.

“Right. Good. Well, do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“The good news”.

“We have had the information back from the mobile phone company. They tell us that the last call Willis received was made from a phone using a sim card bought the day before. It was only used to make that one call and has not been used since. It was a pre-pay sim card bought in a supermarket. Untraceable”.

Sherlock sighed “And the bad news?”

“Despite your shenanigans, Eloise Armitage was very forthcoming yesterday. She has an alibi for the time Willis was attacked and we have checked it out. She was in a board meeting at the time with 14 witnesses who have all said they saw her there. How did you get on with the murder weapon? Any luck?”

“I was mistaken”.

“Sorry, what?”

“Please do not make me say it again. I have had a trying morning”

“So, we have no suspects, no murder weapon, no motive, no idea how they got into the flat. We know it wasn’t poison and we know no-one else has a key to the flat. What we _do_ have is a murderer wandering around London. Basically, Sherlock, we’re screwed”.

Sherlock could do nothing but agree.

 

For the next three hours, Sherlock alternated between pacing restlessly hoping for word from John and trying his best to concentrate and retreat to his Mind Palace where he had recreated Willis’ flat. He circled the body, examining it again. He inspected the bedroom and the rest of the flat. He was particularly concerned with finding the cause of the deep scuff on Willis’s left shoe and reviewed the knives he had seen in the kitchen attached to a wall-mounted magnetic strip. How or why the shoe would have been cut eluded Sherlock, his only theory being that Willis had somehow dropped a knife and it had bounced off the shoe. He would have to revisit in reality to compare the cuts they might make in leather.

Still finding nothing new, Sherlock began to pull at his hair in frustration, the old urges for drugs both legal and illegal licking at the edges of his brain. He texted John but received no reply. This sent him deeper into a spiral of self-recrimination; he could neither solve the case nor maintain a relationship for longer than few hours.

When John finally trudged up the stairs, exhausted and in pain, his thumb confirmed as broken and held in a splint, he found Sherlock huddled in a ball at one of the sofa. He didn’t react when John walked into the room.

John moved to put on the kettle, surprised but pleased to see the clean kitchen. He had half thought Sherlock was asleep and was startled when he spoke.

“I did tell you this was a bad idea”.

“Sorry, what?”

“A relationship with me. I told you it would lead to recriminations and disaster. Admittedly, this is a record, even for me”.

John was confused, He had been hoping for some tea, maybe a sandwich and a sit down. Accident and Emergency had been like a war zone and he would still be there had he not been spotted by a nurse he used to work with who got him some preferential treatment.

“Sherlock, what are you on about? A record?”  
  
“For ending a relationship. If you count us kissing in the shed as the beginning, we lasted precisely 14 hours and 24 minutes”.

“Sherlock, why do you think our relationship has ended?”

For the first time, Sherlock turned to face John, who was alarmed to see the tracks of tears down Sherlock’s face.

“I hurt you John. Again. You didn’t want me to come to the hospital with you, didn’t call and you didn’t answer my texts. Who could blame you for not wanting me?”

John sighed. This was never going to be simple was it? He walked over to Sherlock, took him carefully in his non-injured arm and hugged him, leaning down to kiss the tears from his cheeks.

“Sherlock, do you remember what I said to you yesterday? Just before I left, about all the things I want from you? I did mean it, you idiot. Ok, so breaking my thumb was not ideal but it was an accident, I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. The only reason I didn’t want you at the hospital is because I knew what a nightmare it was going to be and let’s be honest, you’re not the best at waiting around are you? Your text arrived while I was being treated. I forgot about it – they have me pumped full of painkillers. I’m sorry, I should have known you were worried. Forgive me?”

Sherlock was aghast that John was asking for _his_ forgiveness. Surely it should be the other way around? He was about to say as much when John leaned in again and kissed him.

“Sherlock. I’m not going anywhere. You do believe me don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. He didn’t really believe it, but he would try.

A considerable amount of kissing later and John was getting hungry. Sherlock had cheered up enormously and decided that he needed tea and to look after his John. He offered to make a sandwich and went into the kitchen, John hovering in the door way, slightly cautious about what Sherlock might deem suitable as a sandwich filling.

As Sherlock opened and closed cupboard doors looking for lunch ingredients, he opened one door in particular. John watched as the loose apricots he had bought himself rolled forwards out of their paper bag. One maintained its momentum and rolled forwards, off the shelf and towards a horrified Sherlock who stood back out of its path, visibly shuddering at the offensive fruit. They watched transfixed as the apricot fell down to the counter, bounced once, lifting slightly into the air before falling towards the kitchen table, where it hit against a leg, changed trajectory and with two more small bounces rolled towards the living room, coming to a gentle stop beside John’s chair.

Sherlock stood watching it, frozen.

John wondered what on earth could have happened to give Sherlock such a deep hatred of an innocent fruit in addition to its Mycroftian resemblance. “I’m sorry Sherlock that was a totally unintentional apricot, I meant to eat them straight away and I forgot all about them. I’ll get rid of-“

Sherlock spun around to face him, hands lifted to each side of his head, beaming.

“Of course. I’ve been so stupid! Now I can see it all so clearly. John, as ever, you are my conductor of light”. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him into a deep and energetic kiss.

“I know exactly who murdered Mark Willis and how they did it. John, you are a genius”.

John could do nothing but grin in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if watermelons make a suitable substitute for the human head in experiments, I made it up!  
> I am [sherlockssister1](http://sherlockssister1.tumblr.com/) on tumblr - come and say Hi


	7. Explanation and Apprehension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearly there. Has Sherlock finally worked it out and how did the inadvertant apricot help?

“I need to revisit the crime scene. I know exactly how this murder was committed but I need to confirm two details before I pass it over to Lestrade. Come on John!”

The two men flew down the stairs of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock was already on the phone to Lestrade when the cab pulled up, demanding access to Mark Willis’ flat.

Once more, Greg Lestrade met them at the gate of the complex, his hopeful “Care to explain Sherlock?” ignored as Sherlock stabbed the lift call button. Lestrade raised a questioning eyebrow at John who simply shrugged back; Sherlock had been silent throughout their journey, deep in thought.

Inside the flat, Sherlock prowled around the rooms, appearing to look for something in particular, dropping to his hands and knees to explore underneath furniture, sweeping back the heavy cream curtains and delving into the kitchen bins. Finding nothing, he strode to the door from Willis’s bedroom out to the balcony. John and Greg watched silently as Sherlock performed an investigative ballet on the balcony, arms outstretched, hands plotting courses through the air, swirling around to examine the door and spinning back to the view of the small garden and roofs of close by buildings. John stepped forward in alarm as Sherlock leaned far over the balcony to examine the ground beneath but before he could reach him, Sherlock was upright again and facing him, grinning.

“John, I require your shoe”.

“No. These are the only good ones I have left”.

“They are the right kind, the leather of mine are too soft and Lestrade’s wearing police issue shoes, not at all suitable. Give me your shoe”. Reluctantly, John removed his brown leather shoe and handed it to Sherlock, who dropped to the floor and ran the shoe down the bottom edge of the balcony door at with just enough force to leave a scuff mark on the toe of the shoe.

Standing and handing the shoe back to John, Sherlock finally came to a rest, hand on hips.

“Mark Willis was lured out to the balcony by a phone call from his killer. They spoke briefly, long enough for Willis to drink his whiskey. Ending the conversation, he was stood just here at the entrance, still looking outside when he was hit on the side of the head by a hockey ball, hit with great force from that roof top. Willis died immediately and fell back, the phone being thrown underneath the bed from his right hand hand and the glass thrown over his head from the left hand, coming to rest below the chest of drawers. As he fell, his left shoe caught on the already closing balcony door and gave it just enough of a push that it clicked shut, locking automatically as it closed. I was unsure if the ball had rolled into the flat or back down over the balcony”

“Brilliant” John smirked. “Amazing”. Sherlock turned to him with a gleam in his eye. Just for a moment, John thought he was going to be kissed “How exactly did you get that from an apricot?”

“It was watching the force and trajectory of the apricot fall, made me realise that the murder weapon was actually a sphere moving at great speed. From that point on, everything else fell into place. In fact, Lestrade, I predict you will find the ball in the gardens under the purple geraniums”.

Lestrade was bemused “Apricot? Oh, never mind. So who’s our killer?”

“Evan Armitage, in revenge for his sister’s abandonment I believe”.

Lestrade reached for his phone to send a team to arrest Armitage. Before he could, though it began to ring. “Lestrade. Shit. _Shit!_ Yeah we’re on our way”. He twisted to face John and Sherlock.

“Jade Elliot has been attacked”.

John was confused “Who’s Jade Elliot?”

“Mark Willis’ new girlfriend. They had only been going out a couple of weeks. She has been found in Queens Park with her dog, head bashed in. She’s still alive but its touch and go. She was found in the bushes by another dog-walker, so we’re not sure how long she’d been lying there. Come on, let’s go and find this ball and then arrest the bastard. This certainly backs up your theory Sherlock”.

With the ‘blues and twos’ in full force, and back-up on its way, Lestrade drove through the streets of leafy, suburban London to South Harrow with the expertise of a graduate of the Met’s best high-speed training. John careened around in the back seat despite his seat belt as they went the wrong way around traffic calming systems, mini roundabouts and hit speed reduction bumps at high speed, jarring every bone in their bodies.

They arrived ahead of the uniformed support and Lestrade decided they should go around the back of the house and try to make their entrance through the French doors to give them the advantage of surprise. Unfortunately, when they looked through the doors, it was them that were surprised the most.

_____________________________

 

Eloise Armitage was strapped to a dining room chair with silver duct tape. Her brother towered over her, a large sports trophy in his hand and they were screaming at each other:-

“How in God’s name was I supposed to know” Eloise screeched, tears rolling down her cheeks

“You had to know, you must have seen it, how could you not know? You selfish, self-obsessed bitch!” Evan was waving the metal trophy threateningly at his sister.

“Well, maybe if you had actually _said_ something. I’m not bloody psychic” she spat back.

Lestrade exchanged looks with John and Sherlock and in a silent blur of gestures, indicated they would all go in and he would rush Evan while they others went to the aid of Eloise. On the count of three they burst through the French doors, Lestrade yelling “Police! Put that down” as he ran at Evan.

Evan Armitage spun to face the intruders, his powerful legs powering him round, brandishing the sports trophy like a hockey stick and bringing it up at speed, making contact with Lestrade’s head with a splintering thunk, knocking him flat on his back. John dove to Greg’s side.

An outraged Sherlock launched himself at Armitage, head butting him just above the nose, breaking it and causing it to bleed copiously, then pressed his advantage by kicking the his back legs, bringing Armitage down to his knees. A hefty kick to the middle of Evan’s spine pitched the heavy man to the ground where Sherlock forced his arm up behind him just in time for the uniformed police officers to swarm in the front and back doors, cuffing Armitage and forcing him to his feet.

John was trying to bring Lestrade back to consciousness without success. He instructed the officers to call an ambulance and monitored Greg’s pulse and breathing. Sherlock leaned over, and John looked up, worried.

Sherlock spun on his heel and pressed his face into Evan’s bloodied one.

“Why are you even doing this” he menaced.

Armitage laughed “Have I beaten the famous Sherlock Holmes? I should have killed you and your boyfriend in the shed that time.”

“I know it was you that killed Mark Willis and attacked Jade Elliot but why your sister? Why revenge her rejection by Willis and her replacement with Elliot by threatening her?”

It was Eloise that answered him as a police woman sliced through her bindings.

“He was not revenging me. I really was over Mark surprisingly quickly, he was probably right to end things. Especially as I learned this afternoon is that my brother had been having an affair with Mark for the last two years. Apparently, Evan was far more in love with him than I had ever been. When Mark broke up with me, he also broke it off with Evan, wanting a clean break, a new start”.

“Sherlock” called John insistently.

Armitage, being dragged away by the officers began shrieking “You never deserved him! None of you bitches did. He loved me, he just couldn’t accept it, kept insisting he wasn’t gay, used you as a way to keep me close without having to admit the truth. You all deserved to die for the torture you put me through, watching you with him, day after day”.

“Sherlock” John yelled. Sherlock joined him bent over Greg.

“His pulse is weakening and he has stopped breathing. Here, I’ll do compressions and you do the mouth-to-mouth. Where the fuck is that ambulance?” he barked at the closest police officer.

“Greg, stay with us or I’m going to have to let Sherlock kiss you too and none of us want that, although he is very good at it” he murmured into Lestrade’s ear. “Come on Greg!”

The motorbike paramedic arrived first. Giving a rapid update, John demanded the defibrillator. The first shock brought Greg’s heart back into rhythm and John was relieved to get a pulse again although Greg still did not regain consciousness. Oxygen was given and he had stabilised enough to be brought to hospital in the ambulance that had just arrived. John insisted he go with Greg in the ambulance.

“I’ll call you from the hospital”, he told Sherlock “He will need surgery, release the pressure from the intracranial bleed”. He leaned forward among the chaos of the Police officers swarming over the crime scene, the paramedics and the traumatised Eloise. He kissed Sherlock briefly on the lips and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Blues and twos' is a British colloquialism meaning to put on the blue lights and sirens of an emergency vehicle.   
> The record for driving a field hockey ball is 200 feet and the impact of a ball driven at someone's head at great speed from a closer distance could indeed kill them.


	8. Endings and Experiments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have created a mood board for this story on Tumblr. You can find it here [apricot mood board](http://sherlockssister1.tumblr.com/post/149882006000/alexxphoenix42-a-mood-board-for-my-story-an)

 

They stepped through the wooden church door together, holding hands for support. It was the first time John had been inside a church in a long time and was even longer for Sherlock. They sat quietly on the back pew until an elderly gentleman spotted them and came to insist they sat at the front with a gentle “It’s where you belong”. Sherlock was reluctant; he hated funerals and had not wanted to come, conceding only because of the family’s insistence. John gently pulled his hand and held on tight throughout the ceremony.

The simple wooden coffin was topped with two flower tributes, but many more were lined up outside the church waiting to be placed at the graveside. Every pew was packed with mourners and a few were weeping gently. Each tribute paid was more glowing the last and outside in the graveyard everyone had a murmured memory or favourite story to share. Mark Willis had indeed been a very popular man. Sherlock and John were glad to have played a role in finding his killer.

On their way home they stopped in at Barts to visit Greg. His head injury was healing well and although he would need some physiotherapy, would be back to work within six months according to the consultant. There had been an unexpected outcome from the whole disaster; upon hearing of his attack, Molly Hooper had flown to his bedside and declared her feelings for Lestrade, who it appeared, fully reciprocated. John had asked Sherlock if he had known about this development but Sherlock had merely shrugged. John suspected he had completely missed the signs and didn’t want to admit it.

Molly was perched on the bed when they arrived, holding Greg’s hand and giving him a rather graphic description of her latest autopsy. Apparently, she suspected foul play and was running some ideas past her new boyfriend. John found it rather comforting that his was not the only relationship that centred around murder, dismembering and criminal acts.

Greg gave them a new update on the details of Evan Armitage’s impending trial. Sherlock had helped further by returning to Willis’ flat and locating the ball that had killed him and directing the police to the hockey stick in the garden shed. The most damning evidence, however, was that Jade Elliot had recovered well and been able to identify Armitage as her attacker. Lestrade was confident of a conviction.

On the way home, John dragged Sherlock around Tesco. They had been doing really well on their, well John’s, commitment to eat less take away and more home cooked food. Tonight, John was planning to make a vegetarian lasagne with garlic bread and side salad. Sherlock had complained this was an indecent volume of vegetables for any meal but still managed to spend eight minutes comparing the relative values of courgettes verses aubergines for the lasagne. In the end, John had dragged him away by agreeing to use a combination of both. He did try to explain to Sherlock the work this would involve, needing to salt the vegetables to draw out their liquid but Sherlock had moved on to deducing a member of staff in the fruit and veg section. A quiet word in the store Manager’s ear before their departure informing her that the staff member was systematically stealing from the store resulted in them being rewarded their shopping for free.

Once home, John began to cook and Sherlock sat at the kitchen table working on his latest experiment to measure the rates of decay of various fruits. He had begun with apricots.

Over dinner, Sherlock decided to broach the subject of another experiment he wished to conduct.

“John. I believe that our arrangement is working most satisfactorily. I find that rather than hindering my ability to think, the developments in our physical relationship are in fact, of benefit. I find they calm my mind and clarify my reasoning”.

John grinned at him. They had agreed to take things very slowly and had not progressed much beyond vast quantities of snogging on the sofa, hand holding, hair stroking and fully clothed cuddling. John was quite happy just to be able to have Sherlock close and had not pushed things any further. He had accepted that if this was all Sherlock ever wanted that he could deal with any outstanding matters himself.

“That’s good” nodded John, glad he was making Sherlock happy.

“Indeed. I now wish to establish the parameters of a new experiment. I have spent some time designing its methodology”.

Warily, John stuttered “Go on”. He was not fond of being the subject of Sherlock’s experiments, even those he did actually know about.

“Yes John. I wish to conduct an experiment to investigate in greater depth your position within Maslow’s hierarchy of Needs and Wants, focusing on one particular aspect of human behaviour”.

John scowled at him. This sounded like it was definitely heading in the direction of being a Bit Not Good.

“Yes, John I wish to conduct an experiment into how many different ways, and in doing so establish a hierarchy of effectiveness, I can bring you to orgasm”.

John’s face displayed his mind’s reactions to this announcement; relief, surprise and finally delight.

Sherlock stood and cleared the dirty dishes from the table with one sweep of his arm.

“And I intend to begin immediately” he grinned, wickedly.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So concludes my story and apology, the longest of my life. Who would have thought one phrase ' an unintentional apricot' could result in so many words. I hope you have enjoyed it. Please leave comments and you can find me on Tumblr as [sherlockssister1](http://sherlockssister1.tumblr.com/)


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